


The Mechanics of Us

by stuckybarnes



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Best Friends, Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Homelessness, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 21:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13086132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckybarnes/pseuds/stuckybarnes
Summary: Unhappy with his abusive home life, Kip takes nightly adventures to escape his struggles, where he meets an unlikely friend called Theo.





	The Mechanics of Us

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This was my first midterm story I had to do in college for my Creative Writing major! I'm really proud of it and hope to make it into a longer work of fiction!  
> Keep in mind that Kip's problems with sensory overload, other tactile issues, and how he stims, copes, and interacts with various people and stimuli are based off my own personal experiences as a severely ADHD kid.

It was the fall of 1986 in 6715 Jackson Heights and Kip had some pretty grown-up plans. 

Every time the neighbors dropped by unexpectedly, every time the door had to be opened to receive a package, every time his father left the house, after every minuscule distraction, Kip thought the same thing.

He could leave.

It would be simple. He could sprint out the door right under his father’s arm bracing the splintered frame. If company were around, his father might not even chase him, just chuckling and muttering an exasperated, “kids, y’know?” under his breath to pass it off. Or he could sneak out and run away as the door was open to unload groceries. If he wanted to,  _ really _ wanted to,  he could simply never even return from school.

He’d been planning it for ages now, it seemed. Under his bed was a ratty old backpack, filled to the lining with things that Kip, at fifteen-years-old, deemed important to have. There were clothes inside that nobody would notice disappeared from his drawers. Batteries were stuffed into side pockets, one walkie-talkie was wrapped in a pair of jeans, and exactly thirty-seven dollars and seventeen cents were hidden in the toe of one of his socks. A Magic 8 Ball was wedged inside his pencil case. He could take his bike, shoulder his backpack, and ride away, never to return.

There had been plenty of instances where this exact plan could’ve been possible. When his parents were locked away in their room, and before his mother came out with bruises up her arms and legs, Kip could have been gone with miles of distance between them. 

And, damn, did he want to leave for good. He wanted to leave all his old games and his broken-knobbed television with the wonky antennas. He wanted to escape the acrid breath of his father, his sweat that reeked of cheap alcohol that made Kip dizzy, the fist-sized holes in the walls and his mother’s jittery, bunched-up shoulders. 

He wanted to leave and never look back, and maybe even unzip his pants and pee on his father’s car on the way out - the one that he cared about more than his own family. He grinned at the prospect. Kip would love to see the vein bulge on his father’s forehead once they were finally a safe distance away from him. It seemed to Kip that this was perhaps the most vile thing he could do to his father, the ultimate form of retribution. Childish, yes, but it was all Kip could do and all that mattered to his father.

But his mother was a different story. And he wouldn’t go anywhere for long without her.

Kip knew that parents weren’t as good at lying to their kids as they thought they were. Because he could see the lies on his mother’s face that even she didn’t believe but clung to anyway. They wore away at her, weighing her down and deepening the worry lines in her forehead and the ones bracketing her smile. They made her seem heavy, her shoulders drooping. Kip wondered if she would get smaller and smaller until she disappeared altogether. 

She would make half-hearted, tired explanations. Like,  _ “we’d have nowhere to go anyway,” _ and  _ “he’ll be mad, my love,” _ and  _ “he loves us, you know that, hm?” _

Sometimes she’d spice it up and say _ “he gets mad sometimes, that’s all,”  _ or  _ “he’ll find us.” _

Everything was always because of  _ him.  _ Every goddamned thing.

The last of the excuses was always the most believable to Kip. But the Magic 8 Ball in his go-bag never gave him a good answer on what to do - the stupid die inside would just float uselessly on its edge in the murky water, broken and unphased.

The only thing that Kip knew for certain was that his home was no longer that: it was merely a house and nothing more.

For the time being, though, he woke like clockwork at midnight every day. It was a safe time - after his mother had gone to bed and his father was asleep with his head knocked back on his recliner, a bottle of scotch balanced precariously between his legs. After all the noise in the house that made him press his palms to his ears and curl his knees up desperately.

Tonight was no different. Kip awoke promptly at midnight, laying still for a moment in his sleeping bag below the lofted bed. At first, Kip had thought the loft bed was a good idea. Being up high away from the violence was good, almost like a padded layer between him and reality. This guise of safety vanished when, months ago in a fit of rage, his father stormed in and yanked Kip from the bed. He landed on the unforgiving ground with a sickening crack, and had to lie to the sweet old nurse about how he earned himself a spiral fracture.  _ “It was a bad dream, ma’am. I just fell outta bed really hard.”  _

Now Kip untangled himself from the sleeping bag and pulled the sheets apart that he’d draped like curtains over the bed frame. He quietly changed, layering to mask the brisk October air and lacing up his scuffed sneakers. When he’s sure the house is sleeping and the crickets are exchanging hushed secrets, Kip arranged his pillows in a somewhat human shape under the sleeping bag. 

He was particularly desperate to get out of the house tonight. His father had come home drunk, which was rare but dangerous. He encountered Kip first, who tensed up and tried to turn away without properly greeting him. His father let him leave, but not before hitting him hard with the back of his hand. It looked alright at first,  Kip had thought in satisfaction; his hooded eyes masked the worst of it, but soon his eye and cheek were a mottled constellation of reds and purplish blues.

Satisfied, he dragged his backpack over to the window, and slowly inched it open with baited breath, hyper-aware of the noise he was making. Every creak in the old frame made Kip’s entire body coil and his face scrunch up. He tossed the backpack down two stories onto the ground below with a soft thump.  Throwing one leg over the sill and grappling for the old, knotted tree, he slowly lowered himself down to the grass below. He landed on his bottom and brushed the grass stains off his pants before snatching up his backpack and sprinting off.

After doling out one dollar for a subway ride, he was closer to the city. Everything was more expensive, but Kip preferred the crowd to a desolate street closer to home, where everyone knew who he was and the neighbors stood around like helpless idiots.  _ “Fucked up family, huh? Dad’s a cop and a wifebeater. Kid’s got something wrong with him, too - somethin’ in the head. Damn shame. What can you do?” _

He forked over fifty cents for a can of soda, and sat himself down near a homeless man that Kip did not pay much mind to. The soda did little to tame his grumbling stomach, but the flashing lights and din of bar-goers was a distraction and exactly what Kip wanted. He tolerated the noise and bright lights to relish anonymity.

“Hey, kiddo. Need a ride?” a man asked from his car, elbow propped out on the window in a gesture that Kip found too casual. He had to be in his thirties, with pitch black hair that matched Kip’s own and blue eyes that were almost as light as the whites. 

Kip shook his head, gripping his soda tighter. The condensation chilled his fingers and he squeezed tighter despite their numbing. 

“Ah. Just trying to help you out. I don’t bite,” he goaded, a wide grin on his face that seemed to expose far too many teeth.

Kip was fairly sure that he would do much worse than bite, but he didn’t mention this. 

“I’m gonna pass,” Kip smiled tightly, “but I’m sure you’ll find another kid.” The tab of the soda can snapping against Kip’s fingers highlighted the silence.

The man’s face went slack, his smile going limp at the corners as he watched in the hopes that Kip would perhaps change his mind. Kip cleared his throat, raising his brows. 

The man in the car positively snarled then, his face contorting into an unattractive sneer. He spat in Kip’s general direction before driving off on screeching tires. 

A low hum. “That was dumb of you,” someone said abruptly. 

Kip stirred, turning to the homeless man who was not, in fact, a man, but a boy not much older than him, around seventeen. His hair was matted and curly, with thick eyebrows. Charcoal, deep set eyes. The dirt on his cheeks were partially masked by olive skin.  Kip found that he had a generally disarming appearance, and the tenseness in his shoulders lessened. 

“What, did you want me to get in the car with him?” Kip asked, cocking his head. He looked away, kicking pebbles onto the spit with the toe of his shoe. 

The other boy laughed, tossing his head back against the graffitied brick wall of the convenience store they were perched against. “No. But your mouth is going to get you killed. You shouldn’t be a prick to a grown man in a car.” 

“So I can be a prick to other people? The car is the no-go?” Kip wasn’t sure why he asked, or what the point of even responding was. But he was curious -  _ no _ , bored, and here was a scrappy but generally friendly face.

He smiled. “Oh, sure. If you can outrun them,” the other told him matter-of-factly. “Because it doesn’t look like fighting back is your specialty, Shiner,” he gestured vaguely to the right side of Kip’s face. 

_ Shiner.  _ God! 

Kip recoiled, bristling angrily. He couldn’t quite explain why, but what this person said struck him. It felt like another blow to the face as he pulled himself off the cold ground, sand and pebble bits sticking to the meat of his palms. “I  _ couldn’t _ fight back.” 

He threw his backpack over his shoulder and burrowed down into the collar of his sweater as he sped away.

“What? Hey! Gone so soon?”

Kip did not answer him. The lights were suddenly brighter, and something in his chest felt heavy and angry, and all the noise was echoing.

“Where  _ else _ do you have’ta go?” the other boy scoffed incredulously.

Kip wasn’t sure.

Three nights later, the yellowing of Kip’s bruise made him look even fairer than usual, and the leftover meatloaf smelled sad and putrid. If Kip tried hard enough, he could pick out the drone of electricity coming from their old refrigerator, which meant that his parents were asleep again and the house was quiet. 

Pillow dummy in place, Kip crept across his room and wrenched open the window, starting his night.

There had been a lot of yelling that night. Kip didn’t like yelling, and that made his father yell even louder. He relished the silence now, the ringing in his ears still faintly there. Washington Square Park was his favorite place in all of New York. It was designed so that no place was ever too loud, he’d noticed. And it was empty right now, too. So he could shake his leg and fidget with his fingers and nobody would look at him like he needed a sedative. He sat there now, on a cold bench with his backpack between his ankles on the ground. Brisk wind sent fiery golden leaves scattering across the walkway, brushing his shins and carrying on with their path.

“You’re looking jaundiced!” someone called, approaching his bench. The same boy from before.

Kip gave him a withering look. “Maybe it’s the big yellow bruise on my eye and half my face,” he offered.

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that, Shiner?” the boy asked.

Kip looked at him. “Kidney failure is more fun?” 

His response was laughter. He laughed a lot. “You’ve never wanted to do something fun?”

Kip thought for a minute, narrowing his eyes at the scraggly, bare trees, thin branches swaying in the wind. “I want to pee on my dad’s car. He loves it and I hate him. I think it would ruin the paint job.” 

He wasn’t looking, but he knew the stranger raised his brows and knocked his head back in surprise. “Can’t argue with that logic,” he said earnestly. 

They sat for over an hour together on that bench, not touching but still close enough to radiate heat between them. Occasionally a siren would blare or a fire engine would honk its horn, and Kip would place his hands over his ears, and the stranger would look but not comment. But for the most part, they sat in silence and simply  _ were.  _

When the stranger wrapped his ratty scarf tighter around his neck and stood to leave, Kip didn’t question him, but could admit that he’d grown accustomed to his presence. Quickly, in a burst of enlightenment, Kip burrowed into his backpack and pulled out one walkie-talkie, handing it wordlessly to the stranger. 

Theo hesitated at first, hand half outstretched in confusion. He looks up at Kip in shock.  Kip nodded, nudging the walkie-talkie into Theo’s open hand and timidly wrapping his own hand over Theo’s until his fingers close around the machine. “‘S yours now.” 

Theo took it, slipped it into his pocket with wide, earnest eyes. “Wow.”

A beat. Kip watched him.

_ “Neat! _ I can bother you tons more now.” He grinned widely, and then, “I’ll see you soon, huh, Shiner?” 

Kip wondered that, too. But he nodded eagerly. The walkie-talkies would make it easier to find each other, and Kip is adept at slipping away from his father by now.

Warmed by this, Theo skipped away with the new walkie-talkie. Soon after, Kip said  _ goodbye _ to his park bench and began his trek back home through the subways.

As they went their separate ways, Kip could hear intermittent static on the stranger’s end as he tested out knobs and buttons. Kip wondered where he was, and wondered just how strong the signal was.

A sharp burst of static broke through the walkie-talkie. “Why did you leave so fast the other day? When we met.” 

Kip stirred. “Because I didn’t like what you said.”

It took several moments for a response to come through, and then, “Well. Alright. That makes sense.” 

A pause, and then, “How can you just leave when you don’t like things, though? Isn’t that, like, not being social?”

_ Yes, _ Kip wanted to say,  _ I have problems with understanding social cues sometimes.  _ Instead, “I don’t know. Sorry.” 

Kip was satisfied with his new companion’s “ _ Nah, that’s neat” _ answer, and he stuffed the walkie-talkie back into his bag, watching the tunnel lights in the subway go by.

By the time he had returned home, undressed, and crawled into the sleeping bag, the walkie-talkie by his pillow hadn’t made a peep for over an hour, though he found himself staring hard at it as if trying to urge it to speak. He had figured that Theo had fallen asleep, or went somewhere out of range. He was nearly asleep, hand draped over the walkie-talkie, before a jolt of static woke him. 

“My name is Theo. I feel like maybe we should know that stuff.” 

Theo.  _ He looked like a Theo,  _ Kip thought wordlessly. Kip quickly grabbed the walkie-talkie, propping himself up on his elbows and looking down at the rusted metal and plastic. “My name’s Kip.”

“That’s a stupid name,” Theo said after some time.

“It’s short for  _ Kipling.” _

“Oh, that’s worse,” he said seriously, and Kip nodded to himself, lips quirking.

“I know.”

“Your life’s a bit shit, huh, Shiner?” Something short and soft cradled the question.

“I know.”

They didn’t meet up again for nearly a month. Kip’s father had grounded him for correcting him.  _ “Ravens are ruining my goddamn roof,” his father had hissed.  _

_ “There’s several distinct differences between both crows and ravens, but crows usually actually hold grudges. So you probably did something to instigate a crow family instead -”  _

_ His father’s mug had crashed on the floor, a shard of ceramic ricocheting up and slicing into Kip’s cheek. _

But they did talk through the walkie-talkies quite a few times during Kip’s home arrest. It was nice, Kip thought. The sporadic conversations were hardly planned, yet offered Kip a sort of consistency that he appreciated. They were mostly prompted by Theo, only because he was more talkative, and better at it, too.

“What’s your favorite color?” Theo had asked Kip one time.

“Gray.” 

“Boring! Why?” Theo asked.

Kip frowned. It wasn’t boring. He rolled over onto his side and looked at the walkie-talkie as if it were a human at his side. “Because it can be whatever it wants. It’s like every color and no color. And the anonymity is nice.”  _ I’m jealous of it,  _ he thinks. 

_ “Ooh.”  _ Theo sing-songed, and after some time of silence, “I like that, Kip.”

“Me, too.” 

Kip would’ve let the conversation fall dead, but the silence sat sad in his belly. 

“What’s yours? Your favorite color.”

Theo laughed, the grating static doing its best to muffle the music of his voice. “Purple.” Another pause. “Is it bad that I don’t have an explanation like you?”

Kip thought about that. “No. I like that.” And he did, more than he could say. 

“Good.”

The next time they met, it was actually planned, after mindless talking over the walkie-talkies. They met up at midnight, and Theo didn’t mention the butterfly bandage keeping the slice in his cheek closed. Instead, he offered a simple, “How’s it going, Shiner?”

As it turned out, Theo took him to where he stayed every night - an abandoned subway tunnel. It was amazing and overwhelming, and Kip catalogued everything. “Track 61, Grand Central Station,” Theo told him. “We’re right under the Waldorf Astoria. Fancy guests used to take the private freight elevator down here all the way up to the hotel.” 

It was faintly lit and warm, in the way that made Kip sleepy, as if the world was rocking him to bed. It was spacious, and smelled of debris and mothballs. The only sound was the occasional chatter of another homeless person and the dull rumblings of nearby trains tunnels away. There were empty sleeping bags along the tracks, and neatly organized personal belongings around each bed. 

Theo’s was in one of the train cars. Kip was deeply enthralled; he desperately wanted his own space, away from his father and in control of his own life. He was so desperate, in fact, that the actual state of being  _ homeless _ to achieve this did not affect him in the slightest.

But his mother would never leave for good, so neither would he.

Later, when Theo and Kip were sitting on his sleeping bag and flipping through water-stained magazines, Kip stopped.

“Why are you here?”

“Because I just absolutely adore sharing a subway tunnel with you. I love our time together, just you and me,” Theo offered a dimpled smile that radiated sarcasm.

Kip ignored him easily. “No. I mean, why are you here? Homeless.”

Theo was careful not to look up from the magazine, suddenly finding the bottom right corner of the page very intriguing. “I was kicked out. I like boys, and they found out. The ultimatum was to either immediately be enrolled into conversion therapy camp, or to leave,” Theo flipped the page hastily, ripping it part way up the middle and then smoothing it back down guiltily. “I left.”

“All that for liking boys?” Kip asked curiously. “They’d lose their own kid because of that?” But as soon as he asked, he knew it was possible. Kip’s own father would be more than happy never seeing him again just because he was different, too.

“Yeah. They think that I’m broken. All messed up in here… ” he hummed, pointing to his head with clammy hands. Kip watched him before averting his gaze to his lap. 

Kip could relate.  _ “He’s defective, Liz. He won’t act like a normal fuckin’ kid!” his father had gritted out, grabbing Kip roughly by the hair and shaking. He landed a resounding smack to his cheek when Kip wouldn’t look him in the eyes. _

_ “He can’t! You  _ know _ that. It’s not his fault.”  _

“I have ADHD. It gives me autism-like symptoms. I can never focus on just one thing and everything gets to be  _ too _ much sometimes - sensory stuff, I mean. It’s hard to work out social cues and understand where people are coming from emotionally sometimes, and my mom tells me I take things too literal,” he offers suddenly. 

“Oh.”

“Sometimes it’s neat. Most of the time it gets in the way and everyone thinks I’m an idiot,” Kip shrugs.

“I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

“Thanks.”

“I think you’re weird.”

Kip was alright with that.

They slept briefly. Or, at least, Kip  _ thought _ they slept. There was a brief time during every night, when the world was quiet and everything felt muted and fuzzy, where Kip could never be sure whether he was sleeping or just deeply thinking.  He could remember his cheek smushed against Theo’s shoulder, and the rise-and-fall of all the breaths around him. He could remember the tickle of Theo’s hair brushing his head, and he didn’t move away because he didn’t mind.

Nevertheless, Theo took the train back home with him that early morning, “Just to make sure your bruised ass gets home OK,” Theo explained. Kip wondered why his ass was the main point of concern. 

“It was a phrase of speech.” Theo had laughed, not unkindly, and Kip had thought that made more sense, nodding.

The wind was biting their cheeks and whipping their hair into their eyes. Theo stuffed his hands into his holey pockets and stared up at the dark house. “Nice.”

“Not really,” Kip squinted up at the house. The sun was about to emerge from behind the roof,  threatening to wash over the house and reveal every crack and flaw. “Sorry you don’t have a house.” 

Theo shook his head. “The subway tunnel is more of a home than the old one. And a cheap gym membership means I can shower whenever I want, too, so I’m pretty much set. Don’t worry. I did what I had to.”

Kip turned to Theo and saw no regret or fear on his face.  _ None. _ It was astonishing. Even stupid, maybe. But it was incredible.

And on that particularly cold October night, when Kip and Theo arrived back to the house at 6715 Jackson Heights, Kip stood still for a final moment before he unzipped his jeans.

“Um,” Theo started, narrowing his eyes, “wow, Kip, this is all so sudden; maybe we should -” His voice was playful and not at all rude, and Kip grinned as he ignored him, and pissed on his father’s car with unsullied excitement.

There was a moment of stunned silence from the both of them, before he could hear Theo suck in air, hopping around behind him ecstatically. 

“Fuck yeah, Shiner!” he whisper-yelled, throwing his hands up and smiling widely.

Kip laughed breathlessly, relishing in the  _ yes, I finally did that! _ euphoria with his companion. 

Kip zipped his pants back up and they stood wordlessly together for several moments, side by side and staring at the water-mark stains on the car now. Theo had his arms crossed, but his head was tipped high to the rising sun and his back was arched, a bird ready to take flight. They stood there until the sun risked a glance over the roof.

“So? How do you feel?” Theo turned to him. 

Kip stared ahead. “Good, I guess. Satisfied.”

Theo nodded, nodded harder in support. Understanding. A pause.

“I don’t have to pee anymore, so that’s a plus.”

A bark of laughter tumbled forward before Theo clapped a hand over his mouth. 

“Yeah. Yeah, Shiner, that’s good.” The last of the night navy sky slipped away as Theo squinted against the budding light. Kip turned to him, mimicked his smile. And it felt right on his face. 

All too soon, Kip was pressing himself against the side of the house just as his parents’ bedroom light turned on. Theo ducked behind the car before hopping off the property.  He turned back to Kip hastily, yanking a hood over his errant curls and hissing, “don’t get caught!” before sprinting off into the dark, walkie-talkie bobbing in his baggy jacket pocket.

Even as Kip threw one leg over the window sill, he was still convinced that he could make out the fading  _ clap-clap-clap _ of Theo’s shoes against the pavement, never quite sure when it ebbed away into the distance.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> ig: petr.prkr  
> tumblr: petr-prkr


End file.
